


Dance

by Drachenkinder



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Beating, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 13:22:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14403003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drachenkinder/pseuds/Drachenkinder
Summary: Loki has guilt and deals with it.





	Dance

He stood in the shadows and watched as they danced. Ornate costumes constraining their movements. Hands barely touching, bows and counter bows and slow dignified steps. Their formal synchronized gestures the mark of an ancient civilization. Rituals so old they were without meaning, conventions of their stylized speech scripted to the last word. Cautious maneuvering to cause the least offence and to stress the union of their carefully groomed lives. The baroque ceremonial music trundled to a finish as the dance ended in a tentative clasping of hands.

He slunk further back, sickened by the spectacle and wrapped the shadows so deeply around himself the world gave way and he was outside the palace, standing in the cool night air. Here he could breathe a little freer, the artificial nature of the place was not so obvious. He walked the road down into the city, cloaked in a darkness that matched his mood. No guard noticed his passage, no late worker bowed his head to the second born prince. Night birds sang softly in the blooming shrubs that lined the roadway. Sweet scents wafted on the air.

Where, he wondered is the stench of manure and horse urine, the piles of their excrement that should litter this much traveled road? Where are the biting flies, the thronging insects that should make this soft evening hum with their presence? 

Why are there no women crying bitterly when their husbands return drunken and abusive from a night of carousing? No sobbing pregnant girl who gave herself unwitting to a sot of a warrior only to be left on the morrow. No hungry orphans or mourning widows dare broach the perfect vison of happiness in the realm eternal. “We shall not mourn the glorious dead.” No, never because then the false dream would shatter on a thousand cold truths. Because death is never glorious, only brutal and pointless and a tearing angry wound that never heals in the hearts of the living. The traitorous thoughts raced in his head, damning him. 

He’d tried to drown them out, he was no coward, no stranger to battle. He’d fought beside those to whom war was a drug, answering the call to defend his realm and king. Lifted knife and sword and magic to destroy the enemies of his people and the worlds they defended. But he looked them in the eyes and saw not faceless monsters, not others, but beloved sons and caring fathers and brave hearted brothers who were fighting for their own strongly held beliefs. 

So how could he join his fellows in their reveling and recount his deeds as though it was something to be proud of?

“Yes brother, did you see how I drove my knife through the belly of that older soldier so his guts spilled across the boy fighting next to him. I’m sure that was his son from the resemblance. And how I was able to snap his neck because he dropped his sword to catch his father’s falling body? Wasn’t that a clever move?” He’d say with a mocking laugh.

He could imagine their stunned silence. He hated himself for his weakness. Yet he wanted to throw it in their unseeing faces. Wanted to tear the world down and expose all the hidden rotten parts to the careless glare of the sun. 

He hurried through the city streets, his steps silent in soft soled boots, almost running from the images swirling through his mind. Past the homes of the wealthy, past the shops and empty stalls, past the workers trim little houses nestled together in cheerful companionship. Into the darker lanes were no watch bothered to go. To the ramshackle buildings that housed the sons and daughters of those fallen on the wrong side of the wars. To the abodes of the street sweepers and the sewer workers, the rag pickers and thieves and those too maimed in body or mind to be allowed to walk the open streets. 

He paused at the splintered door of a hovel that leaned against its slatternly neighbor for support and knocked. A dragging step was heard within and the door opened to release a stench of unwashed body and rotting food. A wreck of a man stood in the entrance, his face a mass of scars, empty eye sockets and nose half gone. He leaned on a crutch, his lower right leg missing from the knee. His arms heavy with muscle.

“Fallen. You know what I am here for.” Said the second prince, spitting out his words as though they burned his mouth. 

“Of course Magpie.” The blinded man’s voice was soft and cultured, a poor match for his filthy clothing and dismal surroundings. “You brought payment?”

“Yes.” He raised the bag, bottles clinking together. “As you requested. Two bottles of the very best of Vanaheim’s brandy.”

“Come in then.” 

He stepped into the one room, his heart pounding. He cleared the remains of a meal off the table and placed the bottles in its place. Stepping back as his host picked up one and pulled the cork with his teeth. He watched the man take a drink, swishing it around in his mouth then swallowing. 

“Ah Magpie, you do bring me the best presents.”

“Just get on with it.” He answered, stripping off his coat and tunic and hanging them on the back of a chair. His hands shook as he pulled off his boots and then loosed the ties to pants. Shimmying out of the tight leather.

“Are you so eager you piece of jumped up shit?" The blind man drawled, taking another drink from the bottle. "So wanton you can’t let a true man finish his drink?” 

The undershirt was added to the pile of clothing and he stood in his drawers and socks. Shaking in his need. “Don’t talk to me, damn you!” He walked over to the table and stood close to the old solider. 

A heavy hand bent him over the dirty table, his bare chest smeared with bits of food and drying drink. He felt the strong fingers groping his ass through the thin fabric. He bit back a whine. His drawers were pulled down to his knees and the man’s other calloused hand slid between his legs grasping his balls and squeezing. He hissed in pain and the hand slid farther pulling his cock in harsh dry strokes. His face burned with shame as his cock hardened under the rough treatment. 

The man bent forward and spit on his ass, the warm saliva dripping down between his cheeks. The hand slid back up and he felt the wetness as a thumb rubbed the spit over his asshole. He clenched at the pressure. Abruptly he was breached, as the soldier shoved his thumb in, pushing past the tight ring of muscle and twisting hard. He yelped at the tearing pain, and shivered at the intimate violation. 

“Ah Magpie, someday I will fuck your tender little asshole.” the blind man said and pulled his thumb out. 

He flinched as the Fallen leaned his stinking body over his bare back and pressed the thumb to his lips, forcing it into his mouth, rubbing it on his tongue. “But not today.” the soldier said, and pulled his thumb away.

The second prince spat the bitter taste from his mouth as the blind man stood up. He was shamed by the whimper that escaped as his heavy weight was removed from his back. Knowing that the solider had heard it. A moment later he felt a wide leather belt being drawn over his shoulders. He shut his eyes. 

The leather slapped hard across his buttocks, driving him against the edge of the table and making his ass cheeks burn. The rough hand fondled his butt rubbing the welts. He sighed, this was what he wanted. Again the strap struck hard on his ass, heat and pain bloomed deep into his muscle. The leather swung a third time in a heavy stroke that made him yip. He was panting. His cock hitting on the underside of the table. 

The blind man laughed and then the beating began in earnest. The strokes were brutal, bruising his back and butt and thighs with cruel efficiency, kissing his reddening skin with welts. His blood pounded in his veins and he cried out his need,” Fuck! Yes! Do it you bastard!”

The blows were remorseless, every stroke building the need higher, pain throbbing through his slender body. He squirmed and howled and twisted trying to avoid the punishing blows, but his hands held tight to the table, his nails digging into the wood, ripping splinters. 

The welts split and still the blows continued, driving him into the table top, knocking his breath from his body, tearing the thoughts from his mind till he was only an animal writhing in pain. The leather searing his hide, wet with his blood. His hips bucked and his cock rubbed in punishing thrusts on the coarse wood. He tensed and the strap caught him on the underside of his ass cheeks, driving him up and over. He screamed as he came, the strap lashing him in a frenzy. Burning his battered flesh and driving every drop of guilt and shame from his fevered mind.

The blows slowed became sporadic. He heard the harsh gasps of his tormentor, then the man was pressed against him, his hot spend splashing onto his welted rump. He panted, cold and empty. He felt the mans final shudders followed by the calloused hands rubbing stinging seed into the cuts and bruises that marked him.

Overwhelmed, lost in too much sensation he sobbed, tears running down his face. 

“Easy Magpie, it’s over now.” The tough fingers kneading his bleeding back. The voice soft and caressing. “It’s over my enemy, and son of my enemy. You are forgiven … for now.”

**Author's Note:**

> Pre Thor one movie. Just for the hell of it.  
> Revised on Monday cause I like it better this way.


End file.
